


we were a house on fire

by savedby



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, NHL All-Star Weekend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 12:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11035908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedby/pseuds/savedby
Summary: “Hey,” Ovi says, uncharacteristically serious, “you’re going to have fun this weekend. I promise, okay?”Caught off guard, Sid can only nod. Ovi lets go, smiles again, softer, almost private.Sid watches him walk away, feeling curiously warm.or, coda to the All-Star Weekend





	we were a house on fire

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of months too late, I know, I know. I did start writing this at the end of All-Star weekend, it just took me this long to get my shit together.
> 
> Big thanks to [Dell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklebomb/pseuds/frecklebombfic) for making this presentable and for generally always encouraging me. Also love to Jarka, for having my back with specific Ovi information.
> 
> Title is paraphrased from Listener's song, 'you were a house on fire'

 

 

“Couldn’t they have at least called up Shearsy or Rusty?” Sid says, watching Tanger brush his hair in the locker room mirror.

 

Tanger snorts. “So you could fill their heads with tactical plays all weekend?”

 

“They like it!”

 

“They do, god help them,” Tanger says, raising an eyebrow at himself in the mirror. A moment later, he pouts, and Sid realizes he’s checking himself out. Too bad his phone is in his stall, Duper would get a kick out of it.

 

“There’s going to be a lot of hockey players there, I’m sure you can find something to talk about. Isn’t MacKinnon going to be there?”

 

“I think Nate might want a little break from talking about hockey,” Sid says, wincing.

 

“What about Ovechkin?”

 

Sid frowns. “What about him?”

 

“Just trade one Russian for another,” Tanger says, grinning like he knows the notion is ridiculous.

 

“Geno is so much better than him,” Sid says, loyally.

 

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

 

“Please don’t. If his head gets any bigger it’ll explode, and we need him for playoffs.”

 

 

*

 

 

Sid naps through most of the plane ride. It passes the time, but it leaves him groggy and disoriented. He smells like plane and his once-pristine white shirt has an orange juice stain on it from an unexpected bout of turbulence.

 

It’s not the state he’d like to be in when running into Ovechkin in the arrivals lounge, and yet.

 

“Crosby!” Ovi says, in a tone so bright and happy that Sid has to blink a few times to make sure he’s not still napping.

 

“Hi,” he manages, distracted momentarily by Ovi’s outfit. He’s wearing...Sid doesn’t even know how to describe it, but it’s either very old, or designed to look like it survived a bush fire. It does make him feel a little bit better about his shirt. “Uh. Nice to see you?”

 

He doesn’t intend to pose it as a question, but Ovi nods and sends him another dazzling grin.

 

“They finally dragged you to the All-Star weekend,” Ovi says, reaches out quickly to stop Sid’s sticks from toppling. He hadn’t even noticed them slipping free.

 

“It’s not like I was avoiding it,” Sid says, even though he clearly has.

 

Ovi is still holding his sticks. It’s weird.

 

Holtby chooses that moment to appear from somewhere behind Ovi. “Ovi, where are you...oh, hi, Sid!”

 

Holtby looks between them, uneasily, like he expects them to start brawling or something, but Sid’s too distracted to be insulted.

 

“Now, that’s just unfair,” he says, a little whiny. Holtby blinks at him, confused, so Sid waves his hand to clarify. Holtby still looks confused, but Ovi gets it immediately.

 

“Our Holts, always the best dressed,” he says, fondly, and he’s not wrong.

 

Holtby looks like he just walked off a runway, suit impeccably pressed and not a hair out of place. It’s a look Sid’s only ever seen Tanger achieve, but that doesn’t seem so impressive considering that he knows how much grooming it takes him.

 

“Show Sid the hat,” Ovi says, and Holtby beams, pulls a black fedora from his luggage and puts it on. Ovi catches Sid’s eye and winks.

 

“It looks, uh, great,” Sid says, biting his cheek. Holtby gets distracted by his gear bag arriving, and Sid shuffles a half step closer to Ovi, leaning in. “Has anyone told him it looks awful?”

 

Ovi grins. “His wife tried,” he says, “but all the guys told him they loved it, so he’d keep wearing it.”

 

“Genius,” Sid mutters, and Ovi grins bigger, showing off his teeth gap.

 

There’s suddenly a commotion as the AllStar support staff descend on them like a pack of wolves. Someone takes Sid’s hockey bag, but Ovechkin is still holding his sticks.

 

“Are you planning on giving those back?” Sid asks, trying to sound unbothered.

 

Ovi pretends to think for a moment before grinning. “Since we’re teammates,” he says, extending the arm that’s holding the sticks.

 

Sid grabs them, but Ovi holds on for a moment longer, prompting Sid to look at him.

 

“Hey,” Ovi says, uncharacteristically serious, “you’re going to have fun this weekend. I promise, okay?”

 

Caught off guard, Sid can only nod. Ovi lets go, smiles again, softer, almost private.

 

Sid watches him walk away, feeling curiously warm.

 

 

*

 

 

The NHL100 event is a little intense. There are so many cameras and so many people to shake hands with. Sid would have loved the opportunity to quiz some of the legends of the game, but there isn’t really a lot of time to chat between the flashing of the camera lights.

 

It’s somewhere sandwiched between a high ranking official and the Flames GM that Sid feels a tap on his elbow. He turns around to see a familiar smile. Not quite as many missing teeth though.

 

“Hello!” Ovi’s father says brightly, motioning for Sid to follow him.

 

Sid does, a little confused, but grateful to his unlikely savior.

 

The elder Ovechkin leads him right to the younger one, holding court in one of the corners of the room. Ovi’s eyes widen when he catches sight of them, face twisting up in confusion. His father says something to him in Russian, but it doesn’t seem to clear up the situation any, because he looks even more confused. 

 

“He saved me from a boring conversation,” Sid says, and Ovi nods, still looking at him strangely. Sid doesn’t have a lot of time to contemplate the expression, because Mikhail Ovechkin has found a photographer, and Sid needs to school his expression, hoping it’s appropriate for the occasion.

 

After two flashes, they separate and Mikhail says something to his son in Russian. Sid looks between them as Ovi laughs.

 

“What did he say?” he asks.

 

Ovi grins. “That the picture will be on the front page of all the Russian newspapers tomorrow.”

 

Sid laughs, a little awkwardly. He can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He’s about to say something else when he’s interrupted by a voice that’s significantly colder.

 

“Don’t say things like that,” Tatyana Ovechkina says, turns to Sid after her son looks appropriately chastened.

 

“Hello, Sidney,” she says, calmly. He’s forgotten how sharp her gaze it, how it feels like she’s looking right through you.

 

“Hello, ma’am,” he says, feeling rather like an unruly teenager.

 

“Congratulations,” she says, and he can’t tell if it’s for being named in the NHL100, or for the Stanley Cup or for something else. He searches her face for clues, but it’s nothing like her son’s and he can’t read it.

 

“Thank you,” he says, finally. It seems to be good enough, because she nods, once, and disappears into the crowd.

 

Sid aims a shellshocked look at Ovi, who smiles at him.

 

“I don’t think she likes me,” Sid says, grasping for humor. Ovi shrugs.

 

“She doesn’t like most people,” Ovi says, which does make Sid feel better. 

 

Sid nods, rolls his shoulders where they’re getting uncomfortable and a little sweaty in his suit. “I need a drink,” he muses.

 

Ovi positively lights up. “That’s the spirit!” he says, flagging down a waiter with a tray of champagne. He takes two flutes, hands one over to Sid. Their fingers brush lightly on the crystal.

 

Sid drinks it a little bit too quickly and the bubbles tickle his throat, causing him to cough a little. Ovi grins at him and hands him another glass.

 

The fall into conversation effortlessly. It’s sometimes easy to forget just how smart Ovi is behind his innocuous facade. Sid has always known that Ovi wasn’t dumb, but he’s forgotten just how much information he’s got stored away, in years old stats and memorized plays. 

 

They cycle through hockey history, with occasional input from some of the legends of hockey that happen to drift in their direction, then move on to tactics. They’re so engrossed that they barely even notice Gretzky arriving, until he clears his throat.

 

“I see you’re getting along,” Gretzky says, gaze sweeping over the mess they’ve made of the floor.

 

There are shredded napkins marking the lines and the faceoff circles, and they’re using champagne glasses in place of the players, moving them around in imitation of plays.

 

“Ah,” Sid says, exchanging a guilty look with Ovi, “you know the rivalry was overhyped.”

 

“Good,” Gretzky says, something mischievous flashing in his eyes, “you’re on a line together on Sunday. Make it work.”

 

He breezes past them to move one of the champagne glasses and then walks away, leaving them staring at each other, dumbstruck.

 

“Well,” Ovi finally says, “I think we need a new plan.”

 

They argue over plays even more vigorously after that.

 

“I don’t think you can make that shot,” Sid says, skeptically, missing the way Ovi’s eyes flash.

 

“I can!”

 

“I don’t think it’s physically possible.”

 

“I’ll make the shot, Crosby, just pass it to me.”

 

Sometime during the evening, Jagr drifts in their direction. He takes one look at their flushed faces and discarded ties, and grins, pulling a flask from his inner pocket.

 

“Special Czech recipe,” Jagr says, pressing it into Sid’s hand. “Secret to keep you playing in your forties.” 

 

It’s fine when he takes the first sip, but when he swallows, it burns like hellfire down his throat. When he coughs, he half expects smoke to come out. Ovi grins at him, and takes a sip too. He grimaces and Sid laughs, has to grab the back of a chair to keep from falling over, momentarily dizzy. He’s drunk more than he thought.

 

“I don’t know what that is, but it’s certainly not meant to be drunk,” Ovi declares, wiping of his mouth with the back of his hand. Sid catches himself tracking the motion and looks away, at Jagr, who’s grinning smugly.

 

“If it doesn’t give you an ulcer, it’d probably cure it, is what my mama used to say,” Jagr says, takes a sip. His face doesn’t change. 

 

“I’ll stick to more conventional medicine, thanks,” Sid says, and Jagr just waves him off and disappears into the crowd. 

 

“Do you think that’s what he’s feeding Ekblad and that’s why he’s got the…” Ovi mimes at his chin and Sid nods.

 

“That would explain it,” he says.

 

“You should ask him to borrow some for playoffs,” Ovi says, sagely, and Sid just rolls his eyes.

 

The party starts winding down and somehow, Sid finds himself with Ovi, walking through the corridors up to their rooms. 

 

Ovi isn’t wearing his jacket, has it swinging from his fingertips instead, in time with his steps. He’s unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and lost his tie somewhere in the course of the night. Sid’s attention keeps getting caught on weird things, like the color of Ovi’s wrist veins, and the flash of his gold chain. It’s possible that Sid’s a little bit drunk.

 

“I’m a little bit drunk,” Sid says and Ovi snorts.

 

“Nonsense,” he says, “you’re just relaxed. Loose for the weekend. Letting your hair down.”

 

“Did you memorize an idiom list?” Sid says, and Ovi just grins at him, quirking an eyebrow. “Of course you did.”

 

Ovi stops in front of one of the doors. “This is me,” he says, inclining his head towards it.

 

“Oh, okay,” Sid says, grasping at his scattered thoughts, “I’m just down there.” He waves down the hallway. His room number is written on his room key, but he’s not really sure where he’s got it. 

 

There’s an awkward beat of silence, filled with a distinct type of tension that’s been building around them ever since they met at the airport. It makes Sid’s shoulders knot and his mouth fill with saliva. He catches himself staring at Ovi’s lips again.

 

Ovi rocks back and forth on his feet. They’re standing close together, and if he just leaned in a little bit they would - 

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ovi says, almost gently. “Drink some water, media is going to suck.”

 

Sid nods, a little confused, says, “Yeah,” and “Goodnight,” watching Ovi struggle with his keycard and through the door of the hotel room.

 

 

*

 

Dealing with media while hungover isn’t exactly the most pleasant experience, but Sid could probably answer most of these questions in his sleep. There’s a tense moment when he gets asked if he’s excited to be there and he almost tells them about how they have to get pucks deep, but for the most part it goes smoothly.

 

It goes so well actually, that he finds himself left to his own devices for a few minutes and he wanders around the event floor, taking in the sights. 

 

He barely dodges Bryzgailov, who’s carrying not one, but two microphones. He isn’t sure what that’s about, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know. 

 

He finds himself wandering to the  section where Ovi’s just finishing up his questions, idly chatting with the journalists in an easy way that Sid can never quite manage, especially with the camera on him. Their moment from the night before still fresh on his mind, Sid brings out his phone and looks through his contacts.

 

His number for Ovi is old, but hopefully he hasn’t changed it, and Sid doesn’t end up texting some old lady in West Washington by accident.

 

‘I’m not having fun yet.’ he sends him, and regrets it almost immediately.

 

He can see the moment Ovi’s eyes catch the notification, because he frowns a little, and reaches for his phone. Then he looks up, searching the crowd, and Sid lifts his hand up to wave at him, feeling painfully awkward, up until the moment Ovi catches sight of him and breaks out in a grin.

 

He turns back to his phone and Sid’s buzzes in his hands. They’re a little sweaty and it takes him two tries to open up the message, but that’s only because it’s really hot on the event floor.

 

‘I’ll sic Bryz on you, you’ll have fun for sure,’ Ovi had written and Sid looks up to grimace at him. Ovi follows up with, ‘he asks very difficult questions, you might not get them right.’

 

‘Like what?’

 

‘Math.’

 

‘I’m good at math.’ Sid is not good at math.

 

‘2+2*2?’

 

Sid frowns. He’s reasonably sure of the answer, but.

 

‘6’

 

He looks up to find Ovi grinning. ‘You used your phone calculator’

 

‘I didn’t!’ Sid had.

 

‘I was looking right at you, I saw it.’

 

‘Well, did you get it right?’

 

‘All the Russians got it right, we have a superior school system.’

 

Sid is interrupted in his passionate defense of the Canadian school system by one of the harried-looking staff members. Apparently there’s a photoshoot he’s missing out on. Oops.

 

He follows the man through the crowds, away from Ovi’s station. He doesn’t have time to look at his phone until later, and by then Ovi’s sent him another message.

 

‘See you at the skills competition. You’ll have fun. I promised.’

 

 

*

 

 

Sid finds himself sticking close to Ovi the next day. He doesn’t mean to, but it’s the first time he’s been able to look at his stick in person, and they get distracted comparing the flex and the length, and end up rushing through dressing because they took so long.

 

It feels almost like Sid’s rookie year all over again, him and Ovi stuck between all those photoshoots and newspaper headlines, building something like friendship in the breaks between takes.

 

“So, did you mess with the rookies any?” Ovi asks. He has to lean in, because it’s loud at the rink, and the sound of his voice so close makes Sid shiver unconsciously.

 

“I told Matthews I sawed through his stick.”

 

Ovi grins. “A classic.”

 

“Yep. Isn’t Laine a big fan of yours?” Sid asks.

 

“Yeah,” Ovi says, frowning suddenly. “He’s, uh. A little weird.”

 

Sid perks up. “Weird how?”

 

Ovi sighs, leans over to look over Sid’s shoulder, presumably checking on Laine. 

 

“When I met him, he asked me to sign his stick,” Ovi pauses, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. 

 

“Okay? But that’s normal, right?” 

 

“Yeah, but after,” Ovi frowns, “he asked me for a lock of my hair.”

 

Sid chokes on air. “He what?”

 

“A lock of my hair. For his altar.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“I can’t tell if he’s fucking with me or if he’s serious.”

 

They both turn around to look at Laine. He notices them watching and beams, waving. Ovi pales and grips Sid’s arm. Matthews, who’s sitting next to Laine and evidently in on the joke, looks between him and Ovi’s terrified face and starts laughing.

 

“I think he’s fucking with you,” Sid says, dryly.

 

“Still creepy,” Ovi mutters.

 

He doesn’t let go of Sid’s hand though, not until they call him to do the hardest shot part of the competition. 

 

He flubs it completely but still sits next to Sid after, leaning into him.

 

At some point, PK wanders over to them, wearing those weird Snapchat sunglasses. And the thing about PK is that he thinks he’s good at being subtle, but he’s actually awful at it.

 

So when PK casually asks, “So you two, huh?” while wagging his eyebrows madly, Sid mentally sends up a little prayer.

 

“Are you jealous?” Ovi asks. If he were any closer to Sid, he’d be sitting in his lap, which isn’t that bad a prospect if Sid thinks about it. Ovi is heavy, but maybe Sid could get in some of his strength workout.

 

“I am a little bit,” PK says, snorting.

 

He blames his impaired judgement (from Ovi’s hand casually resting on his knee) for agreeing to put on the Snapchat glasses.

 

He looks around, a bit confused at what the point is. Ovi grins at him and Sid can’t help smiling back, stupidly.

 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” PK mutters when he passes him, which is a tall order for someone who basically dived behind a clothing basket yesterday to avoid Carey’s gaze.

 

 

*

 

 

Truth is, Sid has a very good idea of what he’s doing. He’s made the same mistake before, except he was considerably younger and, let’s face it, he hasn’t really got any smarter since then.

 

“Do you want to come in?” Ovi asks and Sid is nodding before he even finishes the question.

 

He’s the one who presses Ovi against the wall, winds his fingers in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that’s got a few years’ longing in it.

 

Sid is the one who reaches down to grope Ovi’s ass and Sid is the one who breaks two of the buttons on his dress shirt trying to get him naked.

 

But Ovi lets him.

 

 

*

 

 

After it’s done, Sid lays back with Ovi’s head on his chest, both of them catching their breath. Sid is half-consciously running his fingers through Ovi’s hair, feeling completely relaxed.

 

“Are you counting all the grey hairs?” Ovi mutters against his skin. “You’ll be counting for a while.”

 

Sid holds up a strand, squinting at it in the lamp light. “At least you aren’t bald,” he says.

 

Ovi snorts, mutters “Getzlaf” under his breath as Sid bites down on his tongue to smother a giggle.

 

Ovi sighs softly, reaches over to smooth his hand over Sid’s hip. “It’s a shame we’ve only got two days,” he says, “I’d love to fuck you.”

 

Sid shivers, swallows a gasp. “Don’t want to risk it,” he says, softly.

 

Ovi hums. “Gotta treat you right,” he says, then sighs wistfully, drawing circles on Sid’s hip. “Best ass in the NHL.”

 

“NHL100 ass?” Sid asks, face a little warm.

 

Ovi sits up so he’s straddling Sid’s thigh, looking down at him. His dick sits snug against Sid’s skin and the soft, flaccid feel of it feels strangely intimate.

 

“You know,” Ovi says, thoughtfully, “I don’t think I’ve ever looked at Gretzky’s ass.”

 

And Sid just loses it, throwing his head back and laughing until tears spring to his eyes, while Ovi looks down at him, grinning.

 

“I can’t believe you just made me think about Gretzky’s ass,” Sid chokes out through laughter.

 

“It’s an underrated stat,” Ovi says.

 

Eventually, Sid calms down his laughter and they fall into silence. It’s comfortable. Sid feels pleasantly relaxed, emptied out by the laugher and he doesn’t mind Ovi’s eyes on him, doesn’t think to feel embarrassed.

 

Ovi rubs against his thigh, softly, more playful than anything with actual intent, and Sid runs his fingers through Ovi’s treasure trail, enjoying the way it makes him gasp.

 

“I’d need a bit more than a few days prep, if you wanted to fuck me,” Sid says, distracted by the way Ovi’s abdomen contracts under his touch, “it’s been a while, for me.”

 

“Huh,” Ovi says, leaning into the touch like a cat, “how long?”

 

“Since you, probably,” Sid says, dryly.

 

Ovi freezes.

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve fucked other people,” Sid says, suddenly feeling a bit defensive. “But I haven’t had anyone fuck me.”

 

“But why did I punch Geno in the face in 2008?” Ovi says, almost plaintive.

 

“I don’t know,” Sid says, “but it’s Geno, he probably did something to deserve it.”

 

“But I thought, you and he…” Ovi stares down at Sid, then flops off to the side with a groan.

 

“What about me and Geno?”

 

“I thought you got together.”

 

“What? No, what the hell?”

 

“But then why did you break up with me?” Ovi asks, plaintively and Sid turns to look at him, blinking.

 

“You broke up with me,” he says.

 

“What? No, I didn’t!”

 

“Yeah, you did. You came to Mario’s house, drunk, yelled some things in Russian and then left. And you didn’t answer my calls after that.”

 

“I thought you and Geno slept together,” Ovi says, then laughs, soft and bitter. “Dumb. We weren’t really exclusive.”

 

“I was pretty exclusive about you,” Sid says, quietly, watching Ovi’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

 

“Oh,” Ovi says. “Okay.”

 

Sid snorts. “Did you never think to ask Geno about this?”

 

“I did,” Ovi says, turning to his side to look at Sid, “he laughed and called me a dumbass. I assumed you’d broken up.”

 

“And why didn’t you call me after that?”

 

Ovi shrugs. “Embarrassed.”

 

“Huh,” Sid says, “yeah, okay. Flower kept telling me to get a grip and start dating again, so I did. Eventually.”

 

“Did you pine over me, Sidney Crosby?” Ovi says, gently and Sid rolls his eyes.

 

“Whatever. There’s lots of time to think about stupid shit when you have a concussion.”

 

Ovi reaches over to cup Sid’s cheek, pushing his hair out of his eyes. There, he pauses, running his thumb over Sid’s cheek.

 

“So? Where does that leave us?” Sid asks, feeling a little impatient.

 

“It depends on what you want,” Ovi says, carefully.

 

“What I want? What about you?”

 

“I want.”

 

“It’s been years.”

 

“Want still.”

 

“...yeah, okay.”

 

“Like that?”

 

“Yeah. Just like that.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Spot the unintentional pop culture reference for a cookie.
> 
> Also, for the record, I've never seen Gretzky's ass and I recommend you don't go looking for it either. Some things should remain sacred.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://muzzmurray.tumblr.com/)


End file.
